Mister Sark
by DarkSoccerKnight7012
Summary: My name is Julian Sark. I am a businessman. So begins Sark's own account of his activities after the series finale of Alias. NEW CHAPTER! Sark finds himself in a familiar situation, except the ending is quite unfamiliar. Read and Review.
1. The Businessman

**A/N: **Well, well, well…what have we here? To be honest, writing a fic based around the convoluted plot of Alias was a daunting task. So I took the only available angle, and pursued a time period after the show's finale. And I did it using a character who did not have any sort of an ending at all—Sark. Sark has been my favorite character since the start of the series, and his psychology and persona are both exceedingly interesting. So here is my humble attempt to create Sark's own story, in his own words. It's an odd verb tense, so if I screw it up, here's my apology upfront.

And I do not own Alias. Don't be so foolish as to think so.

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**Mister Sark**

**1: The Businessman**

My name is Julian Sark. That is one fact about me that has never been disputed.

The others are less concrete. It is reported that I am near the top of anti-terror watch lists in over 50 countries around the world. Supposedly, I currently rank higher than Osama bin Laden on the CIA's shoot-to-kill list. I am also the most wanted man in many less reputable circles. Whether this distinction is good or bad, I can't say for sure. My allegiances have been many in my lifetime, and few have ended amicably.

To be frank, my allies most often end up dead. I could call it an occupational hazard, but I am not given to make jokes.

I am a businessman. Not the kind who wears a suit to the office—although I do love a good Armani. I deal in trade secrets. Deadly ones. Locations of secret weapons caches, recipes for toxic gases, blueprints for cutting-edge technologies. Oh, yes, and anything having to do with the fifteenth century prophet Milo Rambaldi.

My name is Julian Sark. I am a businessman. This is my story.

**Sevilla, Spain. 0200 hours**

My buyer is late.

This does not surprise me, though I am irritated by his tardiness. And annoyed.

I am sitting in a car, in an alley off of Calle Victoria. It is a nice car, as cars go, though I do prefer a nice limousine. They tend to have fully stocked bars in the center compartment. This car does not, and it saddens me greatly. This occasion certainly calls for some champagne.

Instead of drinking champagne, I sit in the driver's seat, my hands folded in my lap, and wait. I have genuine kangaroo leather gloves on my hands. My hands are warm. My body is wrapped in a supple kangaroo leather coat. It, too, is warm. As are my feet, similarly garbed.

Outside the car it is cold. I was under the impression that Spain's climate was warmer than that of my home country.

I suppose I have been misinformed. It wouldn't be the first time.

In the upper reaches of my vision, the parapets of Castilla Victoriana stand bathed in cold spotlight, watching over the city like ancient gods. The castle is supposed to be a magnificent example of ancient Moorish architecture. Castles are too stuffy for my taste. I prefer something a little more modern, myself.

I check my watch, a TAG Heuer model I received as a gift from a terrorist leader in the Ukraine. My gift to him was considerably less pleasant, but no less enjoyable for me.

My buyer is now three hours late.

If I was an insecure man, I would be worried.

As it is, I am merely perturbed.

The cold steel of the silenced Heckler and Koch 9mm feels reassuring in my jacket pocket.

Out of the corner of my eye, two headlights crawl slowly past the entrance to the alleyway, outlining the walls of the surrounding buildings in high-contrast whites and blacks. It is a black sedan, not a limousine, which would be obvious at this time of night. Though I can't say a black sedan on the streets of old Seville isn't obvious. Only less so.

The license plate on the sedan is blacked out, but I don't need an Interpol database to tell me that my buyer is arriving. I exit the car as quietly as possible and place my hands in my jacket pockets. The gun in my right pocket melts into my hand like quicksilver.

In case the buyer is smarter than I take him for—an unlikely event—I walk away from the street, taking a connecting alley around the back of the buildings. Seville is a well-to-do city, so thankfully I do not have to worry about killing innocent witnesses.

I do not worry. There are no innocent witnesses.

No one is innocent.

A strange mist has taken to swirling about as I leave the shadowy comfort of the alley and step into the harshly lighted parking lot. The black sedan is parked neatly in a space near the middle of the lot. No one has set foot outside it as yet. They are waiting for their contact. I step under a towering lamp.

Two clicks ricochet around the lot. Two men in sunglasses set out from the sedan. Each carries a sturdy metal briefcase.

The buyer is shy. How quaint.

The men in sunglasses are apparently having trouble seeing me. They continue to walk closer, until they stand only a row of spaces away from me. They stand shrouded in relative dark. I am waiting in the light.

How I do love irony.

"You must be Mr. Sark." His accent is thick, probably Eastern European. I nod in assent. "Mr. Karlov expresses his regret at not being able to make this meeting, but he fell ill this week. A horrible strand of the flu."

The buyer is in the back seat of the sedan. The bodyguards are tense and alert, and their shoulder stance screams defensive. No longer is the buyer shy. Now he is just cowardly.

Two briefcases are held out and opened. The buyer has brought the ten million. He still has time to double-cross.

The bills are all wrapped in plastic, fresh from the bank.

My right hand frees itself from the fabric of my jacket. Leather and steel work together in harmony.

Two thugs fall to the pavement. A red flower blossoms on each of their foreheads.

Headlights illuminate the lot. Drunk with fear, the sedan lurches backward and sideways. Six clicks and I am standing within range of the sedan. Two more clicks after that.

One bursts the front tire. The next perforates the gas tank. Metal on metal sparks, and like magic the sedan is suddenly a red ball of flame.

Of course, I do not believe in magic, but I suppose even I, jaded business man that I am, can be given to a few imaginative flights of fancy now and again.

I close the two briefcases and pick them up, one in each hand. It occurs to me—I haven't the slightest idea what the money was for anyway.

**Moscow, Russia. 0800 Hours**

My private plane departed from Seville at 3 a.m. It was criminal to flying this early in the morning, my unsuspecting pilot said.

If only he knew.

I landed in Moscow at 7:30 a.m. on the dot. It's odd how that happens. A limo pulled up on the snowy runway and I opened the door and got in. The two briefcases were put in the trunk.

You may wonder why I did not keep them with me always, handcuffed to my wrists. It is not because I consider the twenty million dollars they contained a trifle. Good God, no. I bloody well needed the money, especially since my eighty million dollar inheritance had be squandered by a dubious terrorist organization with whom I was affiliated for a regrettably long while. No, it was because I had faith. Faith in my anonymity, to be precise. Of course no one at the airport would know the briefcases were filled with cash. No, being nonchalant about it was by far the simplest, safest option.

And besides, there are all sorts of unsavory people working at the Moscow airport. I myself am loosely affiliated with at least twenty, most all of them working for different terrorist organizations. For my own sake, walking off a plane with briefcases handcuffed to my wrists would not be an intelligent move. And I am nothing if not intelligent.

I am now sitting on a sickeningly blue bench in the middle of a mall in the commercial district of Moscow. It is still cold. I am still wearing the same coat that I did in Seville. The briefcases are in a safer location—namely, not on my person.

I hold a cup of coffee in my gloved hands. I despise coffee, but it is cold, and the cold winters must have destroyed the Russians' memory of how to make a good tea.

…It has come to my attention that I am surrounded. I wonder if they could have been any more obvious about it. Five men, covering all possible escape routes from the mall. All discreetly acting as though they aren't watching me, even though they constantly glance over their shoulders, over their newspapers, etc. I must say, I'm flattered that they're even trying, but I wish they wouldn't. It makes the arrival of their boss all the more anti-climactic.

Here he comes now. Fat, with sunglasses and a cigar, the classic mobster image, but this one is trying too hard.

He sits beside me, but the stench of day-old cheap vodka sat down long before his fat arse did. He leans over to me and brings down his sunglasses. His eyes are bloodshot and beady. He says, in heavily accented American English, "I don't know if you've noticed, Mr. Sark…but you have been surrounded." A rotten-toothed smile cuts its jagged way across a pockmarked face that shows it's age. This guy is old time, desperately trying to fit in with a new crowd of thugs.

It really is such a shame that the old ways are going out of style so quickly.

In as defeated a voice as I can muster, I reply, "And you are?"

"Viktor Korvachenko, at your service, Mr. Sark."

Korvachenko. Old Russian Mob, as I had thought. Currently employed by an ex-KGB operation who thoughtfully gave him a management position. Of course, it was their lowest level front, a club in the seedy Fish District, but who wouldn't be flattered by such an offer? Certainly not a washed-up mobster like Korvachenko.

"And to whom do I owe the pleasure of this meeting, Mr. Korvachenko?"

Korvachenko's laugh is irritable and grating. "Mr. Sark. I'm hurt. Why is it that no criminal can be considered a Lone Ranger, you know what I mean?"

"I'm no fool, Mr. Korvachenko. Your men didn't get those guns on a pimp's salary."

His smile changed to a scowl. "Let's cut to the chase, as you Americans like to say."

I thought better of correcting his mistaken analysis of my nationality.

"Yesterday, a friend of a friend was murdered in Seville." His lips purse. "You wouldn't happen to know anything about that, would you, Mr. Sark?"

Time to tread carefully. "I was in Seville yesterday, as any kind of background check will reveal. But I was there for personal reasons, Mr. Korvachenko. I have no knowledge of this…murder you speak of."

He nods his fat head, and I know what's happening next. A pair of rough hands grab my shoulders and I am pulled back, rigid against the freezing cold metal of the bench.

"Tell me where the money is, Mr. Sark, or I regret that I will have to kill you."

At this point in time, the usual though crosses my mind.

_Here we go again_.

And, like clockwork, a burst of light and pain blazes from the back of my skull.

_Here we go again._

**

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A/N: Okay, so this chapter was…interesting. Short, I know. And I apologize for the lack of coherence or clarity in it. This was written in different parts and at different times, so I'm not entirely sure how together it is. If it seems all over, I promise, it'll get clearer as it goes. And I do intend to continue it. Oh, yes, I do. So don't worry. **


	2. Avoiding Familiarity

**A/N: **Hello again, readers, and welcome to the second chapter of Mister Sark. I hope the first one was agreeable enough, but this one gets it going a bit more. It is ambiguous, but that will serve to make the next chapter all the more interesting.

And I know I mentioned something about this story being Sarkney before, but...we shall see. I've been watching the fifth season again, and I now have other ideas.

Anyway, I don't own Alias. But I do wish they'd revive it. Hence this story.

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**Mister Sark**

**Chapter Two: Avoiding Familiarity**

Humans are creatures of habit. Everything we say, everything we do, follows our own designs. Our daily commute follows a pattern, as does our manner of leaving our place of residence, as does our manner of making breakfast, getting dressed, showering, etc. We even follow a pattern when getting out of bed. Which side do we roll over on? How many times do we press the snooze button on the alarm clock. When does the smell of the coffeepot brewing a fresh pot in the too-distant kitchen finally give your senses the kick-start they need to begin the day? Familiarity is the backbone of daily life.

But as anyone involved in the espionage trade–such as myself–will tell you, if something feels familiar, it is wrong, and if something is wrong, it usually means you are dead. Not necessarily at the precise instant you feel that familiar twinge are you dead, but soon you will be. Death is inevitable.

And yet, there are those that have survived familiarity. They have been shot at, driven off cliffs, etc., and yet still they live to see yet another familiar circumstance.

I am one such person. And so, as my senses gradually fade back into focus from the black oblivion, I find myself in an unfortunately familiar circumstance.

It is unnecessary for me check my hands and feet for bindings; I know with certainty that I am cuffed, hands and feet, to a metal chair that is not likely to break under pressure. The cuffs are tighter than honestly necessary–I prefer to negotiate my way out of captivity, rather than escape by brute force, and as such making sure I cannot move is not altogether required. The skin on my hands is a shade paler than that of my arms, and I can just faintly feel my fingertips tingling beyond the iron vise of the cuff.

My accommodations, such as they are, are bathed in a blindingly white light, given off by the single bulb that no doubt swings over my head. Beyond the arc of light that lies a few feet in front of me, the rest of my surroundings are obscured by shadows, made all the more obscure by the light that poisoned my eyes.

It occurs to me that Viktor Korvachenko–who I can assume is responsible for my current situation– must still have friends, or at least paid accomplices, in the Russian police. Or perhaps his employers do. The latter is more likely.

Steel scrapes against concrete somewhere in the shadows.

I stare ahead stoically, waiting for the familiarity to ensue.

It begins almost immediately. A figure, dressed entirely in black, steps just into the field of vision afforded by the light. Tall and strong, his body speaks bodyguard, or thug. But his face says something entirely different. High cheekbones and a thin, hawkish nose scream educated nobility. The gray eyes behind the glasses study me with calculated interest, but also no small measure of respect.

Well, now here we are getting somewhere. This gentleman is obviously higher ranking than Korvachenko. His eyes betray a hardened core of experience and brutality, but also a perfectly rational intellect. He is the perfect type of interrogator.

The perfect type of acquaintance, if I do say so myself.

His figure disappears into the dark, then returns, dragging a steel table and a chair behind him. He sits them both in front of me. He sits in the chair properly, in a dignified manner. Yes, he is former nobility, but probably still hanging onto his title. Not for dear life, like some other deposed lords. No, he carries it out of respect for the old ways.

And for the money. Always for the money.

"_Herr_ Sark," the man says with a scratchy voice. His German is smooth and clean, with just the barest hint of a Russian accent on the vowels. Probably educated in Germany. "Your reputation precedes you."

I smile. "But yours, I'm afraid, does not, sir. You are?"

He does not smell of nicotine, though he laughs like a smoker. Perhaps he quit?

"It is good that you are not familiar with me, Mr. Sark. I like to keep my anonymity."

"And yet you reveal your face to me."

He nods. "Indeed. That is because you will not be meeting me again."

This is either interesting or depressing, and I cannot decide which. It depends on your perspective. Since I am a pessimist by nature, I choose the latter, and frown.

"I see."

"No, you do not." He reaches into his jacket and pulls out a gleaming black pistol, a silencer, and a key. "Now, do you see?"

What I see does not make sense, but I nod slightly, being as ambiguous as I possibly can. It is usually best not to anger terrorist types, in my professional experience.

He jumps up from his chair, picks up the key, and rushes over to my side of the table. Then he kneels. Unlocks the cuffs that bind my hands and wrists. I try to stand, but he shoves me down in the chair. Then he rushes back to his chair and sits.

Blood rushes into my blocked off limbs. My hands go livid red and begin to shake. The tingly feeling returns in a full force as I rub my wrists in a vain effort to tame it.

"Now then, _Herr_ Sark. I will give you your assignment."

I make no reply, in word or gesture.

His hands delve once again into his jacket pocket–this time behind the lapel, and return with a manila folder, unmarked. It slides across the steel table and lands in my lap.

I open it. Three pictures fall out.

"Find her. Bring her and the other two to my employer."

I look up from the pictures. "Who will be my contact? You?"

He laughs dryly. "No, no, _Herr_ Sark. Not me. But someone. We will contact you on the cell phone you will find in your jacket pocket."

I look over my shoulder. "I don't see my jacket."

"It will be given to you as you leave. As will your other possessions."

I put the pictures back in the envelope. "What is my payment?"

His eyes widen. Incredulence smirks across his face. "Why, your life is all the payment you need, no?"

It is my turn to laugh. The pistol finds its way into my right hand. A black, unblinking eye stares at the person across the desk from me. "I could kill you, right now. Is that what you wish?"

"Yes."

Despite my extensive training in compartmentalizing my emotions, I could not help but show shock on my face. This man wished to be killed.

Suddenly the earlier conversation made sense.

"I know you have no qualms about killing, _Herr_ Sark, so I will not patronize you by saying I deserve to die. It is enough that you–"

The shot resounds in the cavernous room. In the midst of the echo the body falls to the ground, the ring of the steel chair against the concrete floor creates an odd dissonance.

The light above me clicks off. I am left in darkness.

* * *

**Mexico city, Mexico**

**1200 hours**

The black van they shoved me into after I shot the man behind the desk stops so abruptly my head is thrown into whatever was sitting in front of me.

It was hard. I have a splitting headache.

I hear the door slide open. Two rough hands grasp my shoulders, and, in an inexorably familiar scene, I am thrown from the van as the door closes and it speeds off.

I open my eyes and cough. They must've pulled off the hood as they threw me out, because I am standing in the bright daylight.

In a busy market, full of clucking chickens and fly-shadowed meat.

Surrounded by fitful bursts of what I believe is Spanish.

I stand up and wipe the dust off my shirt.

Welcome to Mexico City.

I walk down the street and find myself on one of the main thoroughfares of the city. Close enough, at least, that taxis vertiably swarm me as I raise my hand on the sidewalk. I open the door and step into the first one that pulls up.

"Where to, _Señor?_" the _taxista_ asks eagerly.

"The airport," I mutter. I reach into my pockets and feel the wad of American dollars stuffed there. Two hundred thousand, they said.

I pull the cell phone out of my jacket pocket and dial a long distance number, knowing without a doubt that the number is untraceable.

"Hello. Welcome to the Hotel Nikolai. May I help you?"

"Yes, you can. Tell me, has a Mister Sark's luggage been sent up to his suite?"

"A moment...Yes, sir. It waits for Mr. Sark in his suite." A pause. "Is this Mr. Sark?"

"No, no, this is his personal assistant, Mr. Curry. It turns out that Mr. Sark's schedule has pulled him away from Moscow earlier than expected. Would it be too much trouble to forward his luggage to his next destination?"

"No, Mr. Curry. No trouble at all. Where should I send it?"

"Los Angeles."

"Very well. It's on the next flight there."

"Thank you, Madam."

"Good day, Mr. Curry."

_Click.

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**A/N (reprise): **Hmm, interesting...now just why would Sark be going to Los Angeles??? Stay tuned! I have a bit of Chapter Three written, and it may surprise you...

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